


Christmas When You Were Mine

by strawberryfinn



Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Christmas, Heartbreak, M/M, drabble really, oops this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I…” Harry starts, but then he’s crying, tears spilling hot down his cheeks, catching on the tip of his nose. Because if this is about <i>us</i>; if this is about both of them, why does Louis get to decide?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas When You Were Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the song "Christmases When You Were Mine" by Taylor Swift  
> Done for a 12 Days of Christmas Challenge on Tumblr (nozaynnogain.tumblr.com)

“Harry, come on. It's Christmas Eve, love.” 

Harry sighs, looking up at his mum who has a plate of freshly baked gingerbread in her hands. She thrusts it towards him, pursing her lips gently, strand of hair dropping into her worried eyes, gestures to a carton of eggnog on the counter.

“I'm not really in the mood,” he mumbles, shoulders drooping as he turns away. “Thanks Mum.”

Harry shuffles away, flicking his curly hair out of his line of vision. He hears his mum set the plate of gingerbread down on the counter behind him, and tries to forget about stormy blue eyes, cinnamon hair, and sun-kissed skin that no longer belong to him.

_____________________________________

Harry's never liked to think of himself as an overly sentimental person, but he does get attached to things, likes to keep trinkets here and there that make him remember. He has the first fan letter he received tacked up on the bulletin board in his room, one of Niall's old guitar picks from when they first met. A faded picture of all the boys in the drawer of his desk, and he loves it, because Louis is looking straight at him, staring at Harry like he _wants_ him.

Harry's forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. It's one thing to be wanted by fans all over the world, fans who don't know anything about him, fans who claim to be in _love_ with him based off his smile, off his dimples, fans who don't know that he's about to crack under the pressure, but it's another thing to be wanted by someone he loves back.

Harry's kept everything.

His closet has six of Louis's hoodies, a box under his bed has small love notes written in between practices—crude comments about Louis's appreciation for Harry's ass, tiny post-its with _I love you's_ and smiley faces. Harry finds himself laying in bed, Polaroid picture suspended above him, wrapped tight in his fingers. The photo had been snapped at Zayn's flat, and Liam had rolled his eyes, telling them to be more _precious, why don't you?_ but he and Niall and Zayn had been smiling. In the picture, Louis's grinning, eyes squeezed tight as he presses a kiss to Harry's cheek, and Harry's pretty sure he's never seen himself happier. His eyes are bright, dimples denting his cheeks, curls of hair everywhere, and everything was just so _right_.

Harry doesn't realize he's crying until his vision is blurred and his chest is too tight.

And then he turns over in his bed, mashes his face in his pillow, and wishes he could suffocate, wishes he could stop _feeling._

_____________________________________

It doesn't feel like Christmas without Louis.

The house is too empty, too bare. 

The tree's up, but Harry remembers how Louis came over the previous year to help decorate, hang ornaments up on the branches, and looping just as many into Harry's curls with a mischievous smile. Harry's mum has made biscuits, five different types of biscuits, too many to count, really, but there are too many, and not enough people—no _Louis_ —to eat them. 

There was mistletoe on the mantle but Harry made his mum take it down, because he really doesn't want to think about that right now.

Harry can feel the worry of his family, the anxiety seeping through the too-thin air of his house, and he wonders if he's forgotten what it's like to breathe.

_____________________________________

He holds out for as long as he possibly can, and he's disappointed in himself when he finds himself sitting on the stairwell. There are stockings hung up on the banister, brightly colored, embroidered with the names of their owners, but Harry pays them no mind.

The phone is heavy in his hands, and his fingers tremble as they dial the all too familiar number. Louis's bright face stares up at him, perfect white teeth, perfect complexion, so undeniably _beautiful_ ; the phone rings once, twice, and then there's a hesitant, “Harry?”

“Louis,” Harry gets out, and he hates that his voice is shaking and watery as he wraps his fingers hard around his phone, so hard his knuckles are white. Because who gave Louis this power over him? What gave Louis the right to hurt him? How is _this_ —any of this—fair? “Lou... I miss you.”

He hears Louis sigh deeply on the other end, and finds a bit of solace in the fact that Louis might feel a fraction of how bad he feels.

“Harry... you need to stop this. You can't do this anymore.” Harry can picture Louis, dark eyes stormy, biting his lip as he tries to find the words. 

“Why not?” Harry asks stubbornly, trying to make himself believe that he's not as vulnerable as he feels.

“You're hurting the band and you're hurting us, Harry, you're hurting our friendship... I never meant to hurt you, you have to know that. I did this for us... it wasn't fair for you.”

“I...” Harry starts, but then he's crying, tears spilling hot down his cheeks, catching on the tip of his nose. Because if this is about _us_ ; if this is about both of them, why does Louis get to decide?

It's silent, and Harry hates it, hates the fact that Louis is waiting on the other end, patient as he hears Harry sniffle, hears the sound of Harry's heart shattering in his chest.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Louis finally says, voice worn and unfamiliar around the eges. He sounds tired, old, and Harry clings to what he has of him, wraps himself in the feeling that Louis might just care about him—that Louis might tell him he loves him, take him back.

Harry lets out a hitched sob, and Louis is quiet. When Harry doesn't respond, Louis sighs again. “I'll see you on New Year's, okay? Come on, we'll be in New York, performing in Times Square! I don't like seeing my Hazza so sad.”

Harry doesn't answer, letting himself hope and letting the nickname _Hazza_ ring in his chest. Louis finally tuts before finishing, “Okay, well... I have to go, Harry. Take care of yourself. I'm...” he searches for the word before settling on, “sorry. I really am.”

The dial tone sounds, and Harry sits weakly against the banister of his staircase, mind drifting to last Christmas, encasing himself in the memory of Louis holding him tight, pressing a kiss to his temple as he whispered, “I'll never let you go.”


End file.
